I closed my eyes.
“Try harder,” she said and hung up.
The cab had stopped.
“Need a receipt?” the driver asked as I slid him a tenner.
I buttoned my coat and opened the door. A punch of cold wind whipped in, catching me under my chin. I looped a leg out to the curb.
I shook my head.
28
Bryce’s old shop was in the heart of what was soon-to-be-the-finally-dead red light district in Soho and was, frankly, a dump, even for a two-floor walk-up that used to peddle smut books and dirty gloss. From the outside it was dark. I watched my cab pull away.
I pressed my nose against the glass. There was no movement that I could see, but that of course meant nothing. I gave a quick glance over my shoulder. It was a bit too crowded still on the street. I slid into a long shadow and worked my way down along the building’s side. There was a door under a long broken bulb, a post-Edison canary in its little rusty cage. I turned the knob. Locked solid. No give.
What are you doing here, exactly?
I heard the voice in my head; the voice you should listen to, the one that gives you sober feedback, gives you meaningful pause, gives you that sometimes all-important second chance. I banished it. I wished, for the first time in a very long time, I had had a drink before this. I took a step back, checked for any passersby, then drove my foot, heel first, into the door just under the handle.
It creaked, but not in any serious way. I drew back, sucked air through my teeth, and tried again.
Success.
I leaned against the now-warped frame and managed to slide the door inwards the eight inches or so I needed to squirm through. I fumbled in my pockets for my gloves and a slim Maglite. I kept my eyes closed as I flicked it on, waited a second, and then opened them.
Bryce’s place was tossed, a mess. Shelves ranged from bare to merely half-empty. The cash register’s empty drawer hung out like a dead animal’s tongue. Posters of various porn stars and upcoming adult industry events—cruises, awards shows, meet-and-greets, S&M expos—were still framed, albeit some of them now a little crookedly. A row of abandoned strap-ons hung like polyurethane teeth from a single row of hooks. My right leg throbbed. I panned the slender cone of light around. All I could hear was muted revelry from outside and the hum of blood pounding through my ears.
I took a step towards the back room and stopped. Under a door ahead, about twenty feet down the hall, a slice of light escaped from under a door. I held my breath and retried my ears. Nothing.
Confident, I took another two steps forward and then heard the sound of packing tape being ripped from its gun.
I slowed my pace, sidling down the hall. As I got closer, I could hear a few low thuds and more tape being pulled loose. I could feel my fingers, hot and sweaty, squirming in my leather gloves as I pressed against the door.
Two voices. One a man’s. Definitely.
Breathe.
I was trying to retrain my brain to block the sound of its own blood-pushing when I heard a second voice. Lighter. Softer. And definitely female. I heard more dull cardboard thuds. Some more movement. I could not hear exactly what was being said.
I gripped the door’s handle. Took a breath. And walked in.
Felicia Tate looked up at me. Bisected by shadows, I couldn’t see half of her face, but I saw her take a moment to consider everything before she smiled, thinly.
Emerson, her bartender flunky, stopped stocking boxes, turning to face me, his face more bemused than curious.
The silence was just approaching awkward when I stepped in, closed the door behind me and said only, “Evening.”
“Mr. Grayle,” Tate said. “It is lovely to see you again. However…” She nodded to Emerson, who slipped a hand inside his pea coat, producing a small black revolver, “I’m afraid time is a bit short for your charming give-and-take.”
For some reason, I wasn’t quite terrified. I assumed it was because I had burned through most of my adrenalized fight-or-flight chemistry getting into here. “Hey,” I said, dipping my head towards the bartender. “You OK with that? It’s not going to go off in your hand or anything, is it?”
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, holding the pistol level and steady. I was starting to believe him.
I looked around the room. Emerson and Tate were packing up stacks of DVDs, magazines, erotic novels and what looked like thousands of photographs. Everything was neatly ordered and labelled, by year, category and format.
“Needless to say, I think you should go,” Tate said to me, still holding her slim smile across the room.
“I’m good, thanks.” I took a slow turn around, taking in as much as I could and letting them know I was doing just that. “You sure you guys don’t want a hand loading up your, well, what I assume is some sort of getaway smutmobile you’ve got idling in the alley out there?”
“Don’t be coy,” Tate advised, and that now-familiar steel crept back into her voice. “You should leave. I’ve enjoyed your company, but this is all a bit serious now.”
I finished my surveying of the room and settled my gaze back at Emerson. “You going to shoot me, son?”
“He is certainly willing to,” Tate said. I watched Emerson closely. He was young. But so far he was holding his nerve. He took two steps towards me. Only a foot or so away from me, I could see the skin on his face—clear and dry. Not a sign of any panicky sweat.
I shrugged. “Go ahead. Or better yet, call the cops.” I half-sat on the edge of a table, my backside riding its edge. I reached into my suit jacket and pulled out my phone. “I happen to know a few and one who would be especially interested in talking about all this. Nice enough guy. Bit impatient, but I think he works long hours.”
Tate and Emerson exchanged a glance. Brief as it was, I could see their resolve slipping somewhat.
“Or you could stick with Plan A, shoot me, and get out of here,” I offered, crossing my arms. “Downside of that is you don’t exactly know who I told I was coming here—and why I told them I was.”
Tate gave Emerson a slight nod. He pocketed the gun.
“There’s a good lad,” I said, hopping to my feet. “So, what are you guys up to tonight?”
“Packing up and getting out,” Tate said. She wasn’t happy, but that was OK.
“What’s the hurry? And also, wow. This is a shit ton of porno you guys got going on right here.”
“We’re leaving,” she said. “Don’t get in our way.”
I held my hands up a bit. “No argument here. I’m not looking for trouble. I’m only looking for answers.”
“You had your chance to play nice. I’m not so interested in becoming friends now.”
“Understandable. Circumstances have changed. But maybe we can help each other out.”
“I doubt it,” she said but cocked her head slightly. She wanted to hear more.
“I know who is looking for all this stuff. And I know the cops are hot for a missing girl. I think you know a bit more then you let on. I’ve got some info you could use. Let’s swap.”
“I think our time will be better used leaving. And I am going to have to ask you to do the same,” Tate said, erring on the side of her intact pride. She gave Emerson a look, and he took a step towards me. I hopped down from the desk, letting my hand knock over a neatly stacked pile of Tijuana Bibles. Emerson instinctively leaned forward for them. I pulled back, then drove my forehead into the centre of his face. He dropped, with leaden immediacy, onto the floor. Blood, snot and saliva foamed around his busted nose. He made a sound like a rabbit in a snare, then gurgled a bit.
Tate’s mouth formed a neat little ‘o’, and her eyes stretched wide.
“Ow,” I said, rubbing the spot bisecting my eyebrows, letting Tate see my own stock-still eyes through my fingers. I knelt, pulled and pocketed Emerson’s gun, and stood.
“You even know how to use that?” she asked, but she wasn’t fooling anyone anymore. That voice, so strong and clear before, wa
s now about as hard as a pillow.
“We’re all grown-ups here, so I’m sure there won’t be a need,” I said. Emerson began to work himself up to an all-fours position, and was getting close to being able to form words. Blood ribboned between his fingers as he pressed his face with his hands.
“Jesus Christ,” Tate said.
My phone buzzed in my inside pocket. I fished it out. It was a message from Charlie:
YOU OK?
I dipped my head towards the chair behind the desk I had perched upon. Tate sat down.
“You don’t have any info,” she said flatly.
“Sure I do,” I said. “But it doesn’t help you in the least. But that’s not important now. You’re just going to answer my questions and then we’re all walking out of here.”
“Just like that?” she asked.
“Yup. Well, I’m walking. He’ll crawl. How keenly your motor skills survive this conversation is up to you.”
She sighed. “Who is calling you?”
I put the phone away. “Could be the old Bill,” I said. “Could be my mom asking me what I want for Christmas. Take your chances and see what happens.”
“I’ve long since learned not to negotiate from a place of weakness. What do you want?”
I tilted my head to the glossed decadence surrounding us. “What’s all this?”
“Stock. My stock. Well, some of it, at least.”
“You hid all this stuff here in Bryce’s place after you got rid of him, right?”
She nodded.
“Did you kill him?”
“Goodness, no. I told him to disappear, and he did. I think he’s in Belfast. Does it matter?”
“No. Next topic. Napalm Hearts: Go.”
She drew sharp enough to whistle slightly between perfectly sculpted scarlet lips.
“Rich folks shagging rich folks.” She shrugged. “Video swapping, partner swapping, all very titillating. You know, the well-heeled get bored quite easily, Mr. Grayle.”
“So what happened? By all accounts, it all got a little dark.” My phone was re-buzzing, reminding me of Charlie’s message.
“It got out of hand. Someone knew someone who knew a guy who brought in some drugs… But we weren’t necessarily talking about upscale coke dealers. This was all a bit rough and tumble.”
“Russians?”
Tate nodded. “The Bravta. But again: Does it matter?”
I considered this. “No, I suppose not. So why’d it escalate?”
“There were one or two of them who were, ah, interested in taking part. They also were looking to get some of the women working for them. Meeting clients, sealing deals. Are you following me?”
“We’re getting along so well, it’d be a shame if you thought you had somehow earned the right to patronise me. So they’d get recordings of people in compromising positions and use them as blackmail. A ready-made little prostitution ring. Am I getting this right?”
“As rain.”
“Do you know Lisa Claymore?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she is?”
Tate cocked her head, a bit impertinently. She was getting restless. “What do you care?”
“I’m working a case. So, answer the question.”
“I have to get out of here.”
“I told you, we’re all walking out of here. And I’m getting impatient.”
Emerson had pulled himself up, and was sitting with his back to the wall. From the eyebrows down, his face was a red veil. He looked at me with more murder in his eyes than I thought entirely fair. He was the one who had wanted to act like a tough guy.
“We need to get our stuff and go,” Tate said. “The Bravta boys are coming. They want my stuff, and if I’m around I’m sure they’ll find a use for me.”
“Bullshit,” I said flatly. “You’ll say anything now.”
“Well, that’s possible. But as you just said: You can take your chances.”
Tate did seem anxious, and it wasn’t just from the fact I had the gun. She knew I was unlikely to use it, and I was smart enough to know she was right. More importantly, we both knew I was in no hurry for a meet-and-greet with the Russian mafia, at least right now. I considered my options as a few seconds ticked by.
“Lisa Claymore’s dead,” Tate blurted. “It was in the news. She killed herself.”
“That’s the story. I’m unsure. Did she turn tricks for the Russians?”
Tate shrugged. “That I don’t know. I simply helped move product, Mr. Grayle. Coordinated hotel room rentals. Arranged for the very finest of my more conventional wares to be available for the Napalm Hearts functions and, yes, the Russians’ extra-curricular after-parties.”
“Besides the videos, what else was there of that product?”
“Photos were very popular. There were a lot of the usual phone variety, of course, but there was an interest in actual glossies. Compromising positions, people being photographed without their knowledge. Some people just like the feel of voyeurism and paper, I suppose.”
I looked at the stacks of magazines. “Yeah. No kidding.”
Emerson was standing now, and had picked up a box. He and Tate were looking at me expectantly. She had her hand curled in the extended handle of a piece of carry-on luggage.
I nodded at Emerson and flicked my chin to the desk I had been sitting on. He brought the box over and laid it down.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Don’t mention it,” he said, his voice a low hiss.
I poked around inside. DVDs. A few with the Napalm Hearts logo, more without. Some straight-ahead stuff, and some for more specific tastes. Magazines, based on the titles and costumes, from all over world. There were also folders of the types of photos Tate was talking about. I pulled one out.
“You might want to be careful there,” she said.
I gave her what I assumed was a who-do-you-think-you’re-talking-to look as I flipped through the mix of 5x7s and 8x10s. They were the usual stuff: hidden camera shots, pics shot through windows, nanny-cam stills of unknown house guests getting off on couches and recliners.
“I’ve seen it all, Ms. Tate,” I said, continuing to poke around. “And I’ve seen a lot worse.” But then I came across a neat stack of clearly pro shots. Very high quality. Some of them looked vaguely familiar, and then I noticed: The sharp, vibrant colours. The lack of graininess. The seemingly perfect composition. I had seen some of these before.
Ruddick. These were his photos. This was his work.
I looked at her.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
29
“This the place?” the cabbie asked.
I nodded. The low rumble of the engine and the crack and pop of his radio filled the air between us.
“That’ll be twelve pounds fifty,” he said.
I nodded again. I was staring at Ruddick’s door. There’s no reason for me to be here right now, I thought. Anything I had to say could wait. And the answers he had likely didn’t have an expiration date. But I was angry, I was frustrated, and I was already ruining a Friday night, so I saw little point in heading home just yet.
The cabbie coughed. I snapped back to the moment and handed him the cash.
“Have a good night,” he said, tonelessly.
“Not likely, but thanks,” I replied, not without sincerity, but he was already driving away. Gone and not listening.
I knocked on Ruddick’s door. He answered, looking more than a little surprised to see me.
“Evening, Thad,” he said. “Everything OK?”
“Sure,” I said, stepping over the threshold. The snow had stopped but I made a show of wiping down my shoulders and sleeves.
“You want something to drink?” he asked, leading me inside.
His place was, as usual, spotless. There were some candles lit and low music on in the background. I could smell something cream-sauced and exotic from the kitchen. Ruddick would be entertaining shortly. That was all right. This probably wo
uldn’t take long.
“I’d offer you a bite, but there’s barely enough for two,” he said, re-emerging into the living room and holding a glass. I’d guess a splash of single malt with a drop or two of water on top, just enough to open up the flavours a bit.
I sat down. He sat across from me on his couch. His heavy stone table separated us, smooth and dove-grey, marked only by two coasters and a sleek master remote control.
“OK, I have to admit, you’ve got me intrigued,” he said, smiling.
“How’s that?” My temples pulsed.
“Not like you to show up unannounced. And it must be a big case for you to be out working it on a Friday night, right?”
“My social schedule is pretty barren these days. Why do you think I’m working?”
“You look a little rumpled,” he said, swirling the whisky. “Plus you were limping a bit there.”
My leg still throbbed from breaking down Bryce’s door. “Good catch.”
“Yeah, I was a pretty decent copper not that long ago,” he said. “So, then. What’s up?”
I reached into my jacket and tugged the folder loose. I opened it on his table, and spread out samples of his photos.
“I’m missing something,” he said.
I continued spreading the photos around, dozens of pictures of people caught in their most intimate and clandestine moments. Limbs and mouths meshed together, and needy eyes caught between bursts of lens-flare, staring up at me, at us.
“Did you come here to talk about my photo skills?” he asked.
I sat back, hands cupping the tops of my kneecaps. I stared him down. “Ruddick… Come on.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He finished the drink and headed back into the kitchen.
“I found these tonight mixed in with a pile of Napalm Hearts material,” I said. “Felicia Tate gave you up, Ruddick. She told me you’d been selling stuff to her for about six months now.”
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